


Blood Lust

by Shiny_Pichu



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/pseuds/Shiny_Pichu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, Yamamoto finds something unexpected at the back of his father's restaurant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

“Takeshi!” 

Yamamoto stops what he’s doing and backtracks to the door of the kitchen, “Yeah?!” he calls out through the opening he creates pushing the door half-open with an elbow. 

“Take out the trash for me while I close up!” his father calls from the front of the shop.

“Already on my way out!” Yamamoto answers with a grin, adjusting his grip on the hand holding two of the plastic garbage bags at once. 

He hears a hearty laugh from his father, “Well don’t let me keep ya!”

Yamamoto chuckles to himself as he moves away from the kitchen door and resumes his strides towards the back exit. The door is already open partway from when Yamamoto made his first trip, so he merely pushes it the rest of the way open with a shoulder and carries out the last three bags of the day’s rubbish. 

The dumpster is just five steps away from the back door, and with the lid still left open from before Yamamoto easily tosses the hefty bags in, moves over to pull down the lid, and then turns to head back inside. 

That’s when he hears something heavy hit the ground.

Yamamoto’s hand is on the doorframe when he halts, and remains frozen there without turning for a moment while everything returns to a hush. Only then does Yamamoto turn around, slow and cautious, after waiting for something more to happen. Like the feral yelp of a stray cat, the loud ramblings of a drunk and their friends, anything, really. Something else to accompany such an ominous sound to dispel the prickling sensation beginning to form at the back of Yamamoto’s neck. 

But when nothing does come, he turns, and he stares out into the darkness, just past where the glow from the back lights of the building reach, but not as far to where the streetlamps start. It’s there in the middle, the murky black where the two circles of illumination don’t meet, leaving an almost hourglass shape of darkness at the boundary of alleyway and public sidewalk.

That’s where he thinks he sees the outline of a body. 

Yamamoto doesn’t think when he moves, he just _goes_ , rushing forward as panic swells within his chest, calling out before he’s even confirmed if his assumption is right, “H-hey! Are you okay?!”

When he gets closer, close enough to see even in the dim lighting, Yamamoto does find his supposition to be true, but it takes him getting down on his knees and reaching out to find out anything more detailed than just a human body collapsed in the street. 

The first thing Yamamoto notices is how thin the other boy is (and briefly Yamamoto wonders how such a bony figure managed to make that audible of a noise on impact with the ground). He looks worryingly frail, and when Yamamoto touches the bare skin of exposed forearm he’s _freezing_ , like he doesn’t have a drop of warmth in him, and for one horrifying moment Yamamoto thinks he might be dead. But he’s breathing. _Definitely_ breathing. Under the long, disheveled fall of silver hair the boy is heaving like there’s limited oxygen in the air around him, wheezing like he just came up from drowning, and when Yamamoto cautiously reaches down to brush away the hair from the other’s eyes, the half lidded, green-tinted gaze he finds there is glazed and unseeing. 

Yamamoto pulls his hand away in alarm. But it’s not because of the lifeless stare. It’s what he notices under that, when clear of the strands of silver for Yamamoto to see. 

He stands without thinking, quick and scrambling so by the time he’s actually on his feet he doesn’t know why or what to do next. He’s just staring down at the motionless, panting body below him, mind and heart racing at equal too-fast speeds. And then he’s moving, stepping over the body and a few strides more to look around, left and then right on either sides of the public path which are just as deserted as he expected. 

Yamamoto then moves back to the other boy, kneels down and reaches out once more, but his hands stall just a hair’s breadth away from actual contact. Slowly he withdraws them to rest on his knees, and then he’s just staring at the other again, long enough that the boy’s eyes begin to close, and his breathing sounds as though it’s getting shallower. 

It’s at that point that Yamamoto gives up hesitating. He scoops up the other boy in his arms and stands—it’s alarming how light he is, even with Yamamoto’s strength—before turning and heading back towards the back door of the shop.

He stops short before actually going inside, sneakers skidding before he backpedals and instead carefully sets the boy down in the dark corner of the back alley where the glow of the lights don’t reach. 

“Takeshi!” 

Yamamoto’s heart jumps out of his chest as he stands and rushes to the back door, “Y-yeah, dad?!”

“What’s taking you? Come help me wipe down the tables!” 

Yamamoto glances once to the unmoving body hidden in the shadows, takes a deep breath, and then steps back inside the kitchen. 

When he pushes open the doors into the restaurant, his father is in the middle of cleaning off the bar counter.

“Hey, dad. How about I take care of the rest tonight? You should head to bed.”

His father looks up at him with the precise amount of surprise Yamamoto expects, “Are you sure? You know I haven’t even touched the kitchen yet.”

The pleasant smile comes easily to Yamamoto. After all, he’s not about to lie, “It’s fine. Friday night’s are always the worst for you, right? You look exhausted. And besides, I don’t have any homework tonight.”

His father’s arm stops moving as he considers this for a moment. Then—

“…Alright. Why not,” his thoughtful frown shifts to a thankful grin, and he lets go of the cleaning rag as he moves around to join his son behind the counter, “I’ll leave it to you then, Takeshi.” A loving ruffle of the hair, and then he’s moving past Yamamoto to the stairs leading up to the second floor, and Yamamoto turns to watch him go with a soft, “Night, dad.”

With his back to him as he rises up the steps, Yamamoto moves to observe his father go all the way up to the next floor, disappear around the corner, and waits through the several creaking steps against the floorboards until he’s finally able to hear the defining shut of the bedroom door. 

In the very next instant, Yamamoto is running back into the kitchen, almost knocking over stacks of dirty dishes in the process of rushing to what he hopes is still there and his father hadn’t yet poured down the drain…

“Yes…!” Yamamoto breathes out in relief as he pulls one of the full containers out from under one of the preparation tables. It heavier than he imagines, but with the handle it’s easier rather than the edges of the tall bucket, although when he walks he has to make sure it doesn’t swing enough to spill. 

On his way to the back door Yamamoto swipes a clean cup, and then he’s outside again in the chilly night air, turning towards the darkened corner where he can just barely make out the silhouette of the other boy, exactly the same as Yamamoto left him.

Yamamoto doesn’t waste any more time. He drops the bucket down on the ground with a light thunk and a splash of liquid, kneels down next to the other and carefully props him up in one arm, angling the boy’s head to lean against his shoulder, so as to leave Yamamoto’s other hand free to scoop the cup into the bucket and fill it to the brim with dark fluid. 

“Sorry, this is pretty watered down…” Yamamoto has no idea if the other can hear him, but he feels talking is better than the alternative, “But this is all I have for right now.”

And then carefully, slowly, Yamamoto brings the cup to the other’s parted lips and tips it in towards him.

At first, without any active swallowing going on, most of the fish blood builds up before sliding down the corners of the boy’s mouth. But before panic can start to tie knots in Yamamoto’s stomach, there’s a gargle of a cough, the other’s arm jerks, and then soft green eyes are snapping open, startling Yamamoto enough that he loses his grip on the glass. But before he can even _think_ to feel alarmed, it’s being grabbed in the split-second of freefall with new, paler hands as the boy sits up all on his own and tips the cup _far_ more than the rational angle to chug the crimson liquid down his throat. 

Yamamoto draws back at this, giving the other boy the room he seems to need. Although, again, while more of it is being successfully swallowed than a moment ago, most of it ends up down the front of his shirt and dribbling out his mouth like a man who hasn’t seen a drop of water in weeks finally reaching a never-ending pump. There’s no self-control to it, even when Yamamoto opens his mouth to caution he’ll choke that way, he ends up closing it and keeping mute. 

The boy finishes the glass in no time, and before Yamamoto can even blink the other is practically throwing himself at the bucket, picking it up and tilting it far back against his mouth to guzzle down the rest of the fish blood without a pause for breath. 

Yamamoto watches him, wide-eyed, at a loss as to what to do. But as it turns out he doesn’t have to wait long, as the boy gulps down the entire container in less than a minute, making an even bigger bloody mess of himself and leading Yamamoto to wonder how much of it actually made it down his throat. 

The bucket is slammed back down violently, the boy’s head hung over the now empty container as he heaves in and out the air he neglected to take while chugging the fluid. He stays like this for a moment, the fall of his hair hiding his eyes and expression from view. 

Then it happens razor quick, when Yamamoto’s shoulders are just starting to relax, and he’s tilting his body ever so slightly to try and get a look at the other’s face. The boy’s head snaps to his right, and Yamamoto finds himself staring straight into unfamiliar eyes glowing brilliant, bright gold in the dark. It’s chilling enough on its own, but the blood coloring the entirety of the other’s lower jaw and all down his front makes a real and true shudder run down Yamamoto’s spine. At this angle, since they’ve moved closer to the lights affixed to the wall, it even makes the blood-stained fangs pop out against the murky black of the back alley. 

The boy’s breathing has calmed considerably by now, down to a light panting compared to the desperate gasping of before, which adds a sort of vicious ferocity to his otherwise weakened features. It makes Yamamoto swallow involuntarily, and he doesn’t know what to do. What to say. So he just stares, unblinking, just as the other boy does, red droplets dripping down from his chin to add to the gradually spreading puddle on the ground. 

The stillness seems to stretch on forever. 

And then the other boy blinks. His head droops down before he sucks in a startled breath and forces it up again. But it doesn’t last longer than a second. His eyelids begin to sink down along with his head once more, and he truly makes a valiant effort to keep conscious, much like a young child’s determination despite the inevitable. 

But then, even the golden glow fades from his eyes as they flutter close, and Yamamoto watches, startled, as the boy’s frail body quietly crumples to the ground in front of him.


	2. Waking

Gokudera wakes up to the smell of blood.

He doesn’t consider anything else until he’s consumed it. Can’t even bother to open his eyes when he rolls over in what he doesn’t yet process is an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, and with unfamiliar clothes against his body. All of that takes second priority when he’s as hungry as he feels.

Gokudera reaches out blindly until his fingers touch glass. Something about the shape of it is vaguely recognizable when he gets a solid grip around it and sits up. There’s a sound as he lifts up the object. The crackle of something. But when the edge of the glass touches his lips there’s obstruction there. It’s still too much trouble for Gokudera to open his eyes so he feels around until he finds a small amount of plastic wrap covering the top. He’s too irritated to think much about it before ripping it off because _then_ finally comes the sweet relief of gulping down the contents down to the very last droplet. 

It’s tastier than the disgusting crap he drank the other night, at least, which makes Gokudera more cautious tipping the glass back. He doesn’t spill a single drop. But he still rushes, emptying the cup in a matter of seconds before slamming it down to gasp for delayed air.

Only then does Gokudera groggily blink his eyes open.

The room he suddenly finds himself in is dark. Too dark for humans to be of any use but perfectly acceptable for him. When he turns to his left there are heavy curtains drawn over a window. Gokudera can feel dangerous warmth past the thick cloth, so it must still be daylight. It takes him a moment to realize the chilling implications of that. 

He can’t leave this place.

When that thought settles in his muscles and nerves, Gokudera throws the covers off himself and scrambles to stand from the bed, only to have his legs give out from under him before he can take his second step. 

“ _Fuck_ —” 

There’s a low table he can grab the edge of and use to haul his weakened self back up, and when he gets to his knees and turns to his right he freezes, finally noticing the items placed there and why the smell of blood is still quite prominent in the room. 

There are three more glasses identical to the first one he drank, all settled neatly in an ice bucket placed within arm’s length of the bed. Gokudera stares at the arrangement like it’s a floating head spouting poetry, mouth slightly agape, unable to tear his widened eyes away while his brain gradually tries to process the unbelievable display in front of him. 

But unfortunately, he can’t afford to be stunned or suspicious for long. When Gokudera swallows he realizes he’s drooling, and hastily brings up an arm to wipe away at his mouth. He only very briefly considers his options before reaching out towards the freshly kept glasses of blood. 

He guzzles all three down quickly, but with the most restraint he’s shown so far. He even thinks to breathe through his nose as he chugs them down.

When Gokudera sets the last emptied glass back on the table he’s considerably less famished. Less irritated, even. He finds himself resting a chin on the tabletop, and contemplates going back to sleep right when the door to the bedroom swings open. 

There’s a flash of light from above that Gokudera flinches away from and hisses at more out of instinct than actual pain, but there’s still a “Oh—sorry!” from the door and then the room is as dark as it was again.

It takes a moment for Gokudera’s eyes to adjust as his body uncurls and he lowers his arms from his face, and in the meanwhile he hears apologetic laughter. Light and soft like Gokudera has never heard before. 

“I almost forgot you were here,” the tall young man suddenly in front of him is saying as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him. The closer he gets the more Gokudera backs away, watching him move towards the desk where there’s a small lamp he flickers on, “Is this okay?” 

The illumination is certainly much weaker than from the light bulbs above in the ceiling fan. It creates but a small circle of glow that encompasses the desk, low table, and half of the bed, leaving the rest of the room in darkness. 

Gokudera doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t stop scooting back until his shoulders hit the bed and he has little where else to go, leaving him sitting there with legs bent and drawn up to his chest and staring at the other body across the room as he takes a seat on one of the cushions at the low table.

“How are you feeling?” the boy smiles brightly while setting his school bag down, apparently taking Gokudera’s lack of a vocal answer to his first question as an affirmative response. 

Gokudera still remains silent. He’s _sure_ he’s glaring daggers and scowling at the other. This would usually be around the time the person would shrink away and run. But this _idiot_ is still _smiling_ like he’s in absolutely no danger of getting his throat violently ripped open.

“Oh, did you not like the blood?” the smile vanishes only to be replaced by a mildly concerned frown, “I thought it would taste better if I drained the fish out without using saltwater, but maybe you don’t like fish? It’s all I can really get my hands on right now though. If you need something different I could—”

“ARE YOU SOME KIND OF IDIOT?!”

The boy stiffens at the holler and shuts his mouth, but it does little to quell the anger fueling Gokudera’s motions as he moves forward and slams both palms down on the table.

“What is _WRONG_ with you?!” he snarls, “You _know_ what the fuck I _am_ , don’t you?!”

The boy in front of him blinks once, “Well…yeah.”

“Then what the hell are you _doing_?! Do you _want_ to be eaten alive?! Is that it?! You have a fucking death wish or something?!”

“Is…that what you’re going to do to me?” the other asks with a smile Gokudera can only describe as sunny. Like he’s playing along with a child’s declarations. 

“ _No_ I’m not going to—!” Gokudera sucks in a breath as he closes his mouth too late, “I-I mean…”

The boy is looking at him expectantly, with that same smile Gokudera would love nothing more than to tear right off him. It makes Gokudera sit back on his heels, and withdraw his hands from the table. He shifts his narrowed eyes away from the other as he scowls to himself. He doesn’t have any retort to give right off the top of his head. It was hard to think quickly with so little blood in his system. 

“My name’s Yamamoto, by the way,” the boy is speaking suddenly, as if trying to beat Gokudera to it, “Yamamoto Takeshi.” 

Gokudera looks down at the hand being held out to him from across the table like it’s a copy of the Bible, and doesn’t hesitate to slap it away as hard as he can. 

“I want more to _drink_ ,” Gokudera snaps, “You’re an _idiot_ if you think four glasses would be enough to fill me up.” 

The sting of pain that filters through Yamamoto’s features is only enough to rid him of the smile for a moment. It’s back by the time he says, “Oh, okay.” And then he’s getting up from the floor, “I’ll be a little while, then. It’ll be difficult with my Dad around working.”

“Like I give a damn,” Gokudera glowers, arms folding in front of his chest, “Quit your griping when you’re the one who decided to feed me in the first place.”

Yamamoto laughs lightly, the sound making Gokudera twitch, “I wasn’t complaining. Just wanted to let you know in case you have to wait long.”

“Shut up and _go_ already, you idiot!”

Laughter is once again the response to his lashing out, which only adds to Gokudera’s ever-growing irritation. But Yamamoto is turning and heading towards the door, and when the knob turns Gokudera is opening his mouth again before he can even think about stopping himself.

“Gokudera,” he says, clear and steady.

It makes Yamamoto freeze at the door, and when he looks over his shoulder in surprise Gokudera glances away and glares hard at a drawer of the desk like it’s personally insulted him. 

“That’s…what you can call me.” 

It’s possible Yamamoto doesn’t even hear such a mumble. But it’s after exactly three seconds of silence that Gokudera hears an “Okay,” from the doorway with a smile laced into the tone, and Gokudera glares harder at the drawer until he hears the quiet shut of the door closing behind Yamamoto.


End file.
